


With the Help of Your Good Hands

by dev_chieftain



Category: Dragon Age 2
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-17
Updated: 2011-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-20 12:24:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dev_chieftain/pseuds/dev_chieftain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt on the DAkinkmeme:</p><p>"So let's see the companions have to rescue Hawke for once. Meredith can't touch the Champion, even though Hawke is an open apostate. But others take matters into their own hands and, being somewhat cleverer than your usual mustache-twirling villain, they manage to capture Hawke. Their goal? To prove that no mage is incorruptible by putting Hawke under enough stress to resort to demonic aid."</p>
            </blockquote>





	With the Help of Your Good Hands

**Author's Note:**

> This was more or less my first fill on the kinkmeme. I originally posted it to dragon_age on LJ, but I keep forgetting about it so I am uploading it here, too.
> 
> The title is a reference to Prospero, for which I blame Jenn, since she was one of the people who helped me with the editing on this one. It was all her idea; my title ideas were sorely lacking.

**[Day of the Moon; sunset]**

Hawke can't wake up: the fade's false comforts swaddle him overwhelmingly, almost suffocating him with the place's innate attempt to turn imagination into reality. His head is pounding, even here, and he can't quite remember what happened, or why he has stepped into another world. His mouth feels dry and tastes of his own blood, his tongue stuck to the roof of it. He can't stand; only sit in a clearing of unearthly flowers, lyrium blooming in his face, blinding him. For a moment, he feels the hot metal outline of a crate that has been standing in the sun all day against his back, and tastes the soot of Lowtown. It's there, then gone, and when he looks up there is Anders, looking worriedly down at him, kneeling at his side.

"Hawke? Are you all right?"

He squints against the prismatically shifting half-light of the spirit world, at Anders, at the stone spikes that hang from the sky behind him, suspended in mist. Salt; he can taste salt, and copper. Blood. He croaks, "What are you doing here?"

Shushing him, Anders lightly touches the wound along his face, wincing in sympathy when Hawke winces. "Don't move, don't speak. It'll be all right, Hawke, I'm here to help you. Give me your hand, we should get out of here."

A wry, weary smile spreads over Hawke's face, his split lip stinging.

"No."

"Hawke?" Anders looks taken aback, his brow drawn with worry. His hand hovers by Hawke's face, itching to touch his wounds with healing magic, to comfort him. "Please, you're delirious. Let me help you."

"Lost sight of Justice, have you?"

Face twitching slightly with irritation, Anders slowly stands up, towering over him impossibly, swelling and snarling until it is no longer a man but a demon standing above him. Hawke grabs the lyrium flowers blossoming by his face with one shaking hand, blasts the demon with the other, sending out impossibly pure bolts of lightning, bolts that gleam white and blue and blind him. When the spots have cleared from his vision, the sky has become a stone ceiling. He can smell and taste blood thick in the air, and he can't move, bound twice with chains and ropes and once with magic.

"He's awake," someone reports dutifully; a voice he cannot place. He has no idea where he is, or why. Not the Fade. Not familiar. Something is dripping lightly on the floor, pooling underneath where he has been laid out. A table? Small pinpricks of pain along his arms twinge when he tries to flex his muscles and test the strength of the ties that bind him.

Idle chatter in a language he does not know passes by behind him, soft and unsure. He stares at the ceiling, wondering why it moves. He knows in this situation he should be cataloguing any and every advantage, planning his escape, but it's incredibly hard to focus even on his surroundings and their configuration for more than a few seconds.

"Then get the bastard back in here!" Someone roars, not the first person he heard. Accent. Something familiar about that accent. Someplace. Somewhere not far.

Then, light so bright it burns his eyes, and pain; and nothing.

 **[Day of Lightning, midmorning.]**

Anders has been pacing the clinic floor for most of the morning. No patients. Nothing to do. This happens every so often; one week, there will be twenty children who come down with a nasty cold-- the next, no one needs anything and he can sit on his hands, for all the work that comes his way. It's frustrating to feel like he is doing nothing for anyone. And his contacts are currently silent, so there is no word on the last six ingredients he will need for what he is beginning to think will be the life's work of a martyred man.

Usually, on days like this Hawke comes by just shy of sun's zenith and asks Anders if he has a few moments. It's not that Hawke knows, explicitly, that Anders is free; the man just has supernaturally good timing and such a charming naiveté about the world's problems that he constantly tries to fix them.

It is annoying that Hawke isn't here. When he is not healing, and not helping Hawke to put down slavers, control Kirkwall's crime, rescue apostates-- then there is nothing to listen to but Justice.

Their conversations have been nothing to look forward to, lately. He checks the door hopefully, swallows hard, and fights the increasingly violent pulse of frustration in his temples.

 _To sit idle is to yield to your oppressors,_ Justice hisses in the back of his mind. It is-- upsetting, to remember what this spirit was before it joined with him. Appalling, really. The creature Anders agreed to help was a gentle spirit, galvanized by his seemingly good intentions and in desperate need of help to make its way through the world.

Or so he told himself; the alternative was to admit he had made a terrible mistake, and he had the sneaking suspicion that that might just initiate a confrontation he was not prepared to face.

 _We must find what remains. We must do it now. We must go out and seek it._

"You think I don't _know_ that?" he hisses to himself through his teeth, massaging his temples and grimacing against the strain of keeping Justice under his control. Perhaps if he had been less angry, less emotional, he'd have found himself better suited to this bargain. It was so difficult to be ANDERS, anymore. "If he doesn't show up by midday, we'll go look for a suitable smith. All right?"

As is always the case, Justice is not satisfied. He rumbles, and shifts and sighs, glittering with anger until they both have to take a deep breath, just to steady Anders's body. _We should go **now**_.

Running his tongue along his teeth, leaning over an examination table, he considers it. It would not be hard to find a smith willing to work with pewter. It's a simple metal and easy to shape. Easy to bend and break, too, and what he's asking for won't seem strange. Collecting the money hasn't been easy, though, and if his choice doesn't want to do it for such a low price, he'll have wasted time in either case.

Better, then, to wait for Hawke. Maybe there are more of those Tevinter slavers about waiting to be thrashed. It's intensely satisfying to kill them and their pockets aren't too light, either. The lost hour or two will mean nothing, if Hawke doesn't come by. So Anders goes over his manifesto, fidgeting nervously with his hair, making another copy and trying to smudge spilled ink off of his fingernails. The minutes slide into hours, and by late afternoon he has seen two minor patients about a hangover and sprained ankle, respectively, and neither hide, hair, nor rumor of Hawke.

Not unusual, he supposes, for Hawke to choose different company these days. An old bitterness turns over in his heart, and he tries to shove it away. It is late enough that he has lost his enthusiasm for tracking down a smith today; instead, Anders finds his feet taking him up to Lowtown, past the docks and into the Hanged Man. If he can't find Hawke here, he's hoping he might find Varric. In the late-afternoon crowds after Market Day, he can slip along much more safely than he will when darkness falls and the nightwatch comes out to the streets. Only the unlucky and the criminal prowl after dark, and Aveline has made sure the guard knows it, giving him no quarter when he complains.

Since Varric is almost always at Hawke's side, Anders is a bit surprised to see the man playing Diamondback instead. He's about to inquire after Hawke when Varric notices him and brightens, waving him over with a cheery shout. "Blondie! You're just in time. Room for one more at the table; come on, join in!"

" _Varric_ ," he protests, laughing slightly as the dwarf drags him the last few steps of the way over and pushes him into a seat. "You know I'm horrible at this game."

"Exactly. You'll never get better without practice!"

He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose, but can't quite help the beginnings of a smile. "You just want to take me for everything I've got, don't you?"

"Blondie!" Throwing his hand (cards spread out deftly in his fingers, their diamonds giving away nothing of the contents of the cards themselves) across his chest, Varric drops his eyes dramatically to the floor. "I'm devastated you could say such a thing." Then his infectious grin is spreading around the table, and the sailors who have been playing with him burst into guffaws before he even finishes his joke. "I know you haven't got a silver to take! Come on! Sit down, live a little! Want a pint?"

Anders frowns, and Varric throws up his hands, makes an apologetic sound.

"Just a thought, just a thought. I know Justice doesn't like it, just thought I'd see if he lifted your curfew for tonight."

"Actually, I was looking for Hawke." But even as he says it, he's grinning ruefully, as taken in by Varric's charm as anyone ever was. He takes the hand the dwarf deals him and tries desperately to remain stern. It _has_ been such a long time since he took a moment to relax. "I don't suppose you've seen him today?"

With a shrug, Varric denies any knowledge of the Champion's whereabouts, clearly thinking nothing of it. "Some people take days off, you know. Maybe you should try it. Come on, are you in?"

 _This is meaningless. We should go._ Justice is a cantankerous snarl in the back of his mind, and Anders suppresses him, forcing himself to relax. There is always, as he well knows, tomorrow.

"All right, all right. Count me in."

 **[Day of Lightning, Witching Hour]**

The dripping is blood. He's sure of that now. His blood.

His head aches. The knife, which has become intimately familiar with him against his will, presses into his forearm, down, down until it touches bone. His toes curl and his throat works in an effort to make a sound, but the ball of rags that they stuffed into his mouth swallow every scream. Drool, blood, sweat pool on the table beneath his head. Forearms; they've worked their way up to his forearms from his fingertips. He can feel each cut-- he lost count, but knows they are many-- thin lines of pain itching and stinging along his hands and arms. Right arm. Next will be the left again, switching off.

They shine that same mage-light into his eyes, and he feels the magic slithering into his mind through his ear. It grabs hold, twists until his body convulses, and a voice whispers to him, tells him to relent, to give in. _End the pain_.

If memory serves, if it can be trusted, then he knows that there are children in the room, children who cried for their mothers until they were gagged. He doesn't know why children have been brought here or where he is, but is determined to keep his captors' attention on himself. They shall make no other sacrifices until he has bled to death. Maybe in the time it takes, someone will find and stop them.

The children were silenced, too. He has been worrying about them since then, unable to see what is being done to them. So now, as someone's callused fingers unbind the rope that keeps the rags halfway down his throat and frees his mouth, he licks his lips, fighting to speak.

"What-- happened-- to the children?" The sound of his own voice is alarmingly frail, but he dares not let himself dwell on it.

Hesitation. They don't know how to answer. The bloodmage-- must be a bloodmage-- whispering to him struggles to reassert control, telling him that the children are safe, and he shouldn't worry. Someone with that same accent he almost recognized before whispers aloud that they ought to have gagged the little shits from the beginning. See what they'll have to deal with now?

A soft hand strokes his face, and just like that he has slipped into the Fade again. His head is cradled in Isabela's lap, and she is weeping over him. The smell on the air is of the ocean (and ash, and smoked meat), and she bites her lip, trying to help him sit up. He cannot.

"Hawke, be careful. You'll hurt yourself."

 **[Day of Wind, Late afternoon]**

Isabela pounds on the door just as the quality of light that filters down through Kirkwall goes that unnatural butter yellow that makes the air seem thicker and mustier than usual. She stands out in Hightown, but not as much as Fenris does, hastily opening the door and ushering her inside, demanding to know:

"Why do you try so consistently to cause the guard to discover me?"

His expression, sour as ever, makes her grin. "Good afternoon to you too. _I_ have got a proposition for you."

Fenris turns away and begins wandering back to the room he keeps in the back, stocked with wine, books, and his lute. The fire is low and he needs to stoke it. "Somehow, I sincerely doubt I will be interested."

"It involves Hawke!"

Barely, he gives himself away by hesitating mid-step. He tries to continue, but Isabela darts in front of him, laughing at his discomfort and driving him back towards the door as she walks towards him.

"Hawke, and you and I, and Donnic of course, and a present! For Aveline! You want to give Aveline a present, don't you? So she'll keep the mean old guards off your back?" Impishly winking at him, Isabela tosses a silver ring his way. Catching it with his right hand, Fenris frowns at her, trying to penetrate her deception. Perceiving none, he turns his attention instead to the ring.

"Very well; what is the significance of this ring?"

Hands on her hips, Isabela laughs, the picture of dishonesty. "Why, I'm so glad you asked! It just so happens that that ring came from the hand of a genuine Antivan assassin who was trying to kidnap children in Lowtown this morning from the Alienage and near the Docks. Unfortunately, said assassin is dead now--" she draws a dagger, inspecting it thoughtfully, and sighs. "--but before she drew her last breath, she suggested these weren't the first children that'd been snagged in the last few days."

Already bubbling with fury at the thought of slavers stealing children from what he now thinks of as _his city_ right out from under his nose, Fenris nearly storms out of the mansion without another word. He holds himself in check; there is more. There is always more when Isabela finds something interesting, and she might not be telling him the whole truth. "What are you suggesting we do?"

"Grab Hawke, get Donnic, find the slavers, send Donnic to fetch the guard and Aveline with a juicy tip, and exact vigilante justice until the cavalry comes in!" Isabela throws a fist to the air, cheering her own plan with a hearty yell. "Also, we save all the kids, which might take a bit of reconnaissance downtown before we fetch us Donnic and scout out these bastards."

For once, Fenris can find absolutely nothing at fault with her plan. He has been meaning to speak to Hawke about certain personal issues lately as well; perhaps once they have completed this worthy effort, the time will be right and he can find the courage to say what, in the past, he could not. "Very well. Let's go."

As they slip out of the mansion and down the street towards Hawke's estate, Isabela laughs, punching the air just near his shoulder as if she were giving him a playful jab. "That's what I like about you, Fenris, you're an easy sell when I have a good idea."

"Pity that so few of your ideas are ever 'good'."

"Nonsense! You're misremembering, I'm sure."

It's a short walk. He has grown accustomed to the strange looks that are afforded a man of his appearance, even if he sets aside the old human fear of elves. Today, he barely notices them, distracted by the almost pleasant quality of the light. The wind has been strong off the sea these last two days, and carries with it a fresh smell much more pleasant than the usual ashy residue of Lowtown. Arriving at the estate, they enter the foyer and knock on the main doors, letting Bodahn know of their presence as they proceed inside.

Bodahn is in midst of helping Sandal carry a bucket of water into the kitchen for Orana, who is clearly in the throes of a cleaning spree. They glance up in tandem, and Sandal chants delightedly, "Sparkle!"

"Aww, missed old Sparkle, did you?" Isabela laughs, grinning wryly at Fenris. He does not deign to be amused.

"Why, messeres! What brings you to the estate today? Have you perchance seen messere Hawke about?" Bodahn asks, his cheery smile masking the slight anxiety of his question with only limited effect. Fenris goes completely still beside her, and Isabela finds herself suddenly unsympathetic to the plight of Lowtown children.

She clears her throat, raising an eyebrow at Bodahn. "Is he not in?"

"Oh, no, messeres!" Bodahn laughs gaily. "No, he hasn't been back since he left the other morning! I expect he's off on another inspection of that mine. He's been ever so concerned about the workers, lately! I don't think that unpleasant fellow he calls his business partner is keeping their working conditions safe enough for his comfort."

"Excuse me." Fenris is off before Isabela can tell him she's coming too; she shrugs at Bodahn apologetically.

"Well, we'll go check up on him there, then. Thanks for the help, Bodahn!"

"My pleasure, messere! Have a lovely evening!"

She runs out the foyer door to catch up to Fenris, who is already stalking towards the Viscount's Way. They do not speak, silently climbing the steps and stalking along the halls until they reach Aveline's office.

Looking up, the guard captain's expression becomes carefully neutral. "If this is about the patrols near the mansion again, Fenris--"

"It is _not_ ," he snaps, and Isabela interrupts before he can go on too much of a tirade. He's glowing, a little; that can't be good.

"It's about Hawke, Aveline. We were checking to see if he came to you."

"Hawke? No, he hasn't been by in over a week. I was just thinking it might be good to have a stop at the estate on my way to chat with Varric." Aveline stands, pushing the paperwork she had been handling aside. "Why?"

"He is missing," Fenris answers shortly, glaring out the window at the sky, as though every second is vital. He may well be right. It probably is. "Unless he is traveling with the others."

"You haven't checked? It's likely he is. You and Anders don't get along particularly well, and as I recall, you had something of an argument with Merrill, didn't you?"

With her arms crossed over her chest, Aveline is the picture of irritating faith in the sobriety and upstanding nature of the world. Isabela runs a hand through her hair, chewing on her lower lip. "Check with Sebastian at the chantry, then, Fenris," she says of a sudden. A plan has blossomed in her mind, and she's damned if she's going to leave stones unturned just because everything is 'probably all right'.

'Probably all right' got the Viscount and his son a severe case of dead.

"You're really worried about him?" Aveline shakes her head, smiling gently at them both. "Are you saying I should question Varric about it when I get to the tavern?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying. Why wouldn't you?" With a firm nod, Isabela turns to Aveline's door. As a team, they'll be better able to assess the situation. And who knows? Maybe Hawke went to Darktown with a bad tummyache. It can't hurt to ask and they can always hope.

Fenris has stopped at the door, remembering something, and mutters in irritation. "He is in prayer for the next few days; there is a ritual fast that began this week. He won't have seen Hawke."

"Well, _you_ check with Varric, then. Aveline, can you please see Merrill? I'll dig up Anders, presuming Justice lets me have a word in. If they're all out on business with him or anyone's seen him, I apologize for riling everyone up. But Bodahn said he's been gone since yesterday. He always leaves word with Bodahn when he does that, and you know it."

Worry begins to furrow Aveline's brow. "--Hawke never travels alone."

"Not far, anyway." Isabela nods in agreement, feeling grim at the possibility that the others will know no more than she does now. "Come on. It's not like it'll take long to find out."

Fenris is already out the door.

 **[Day of Wind, evening]**

Merrill rubs her arms against the cold, or some shadow of foreboding. They've all gathered together at the Hanged Man, but she lingers by the one open window, staring out at the night sky, biting her lip.

"Start at the beginning, Rivaini," Varric sighs, scratching his chin as he traces out all the secret passageways on his complex territory map of Lowtown. They've currently excluded Hightown from their suspicions, but a similar map of Darktown is waiting underneath this one. There are more than twenty buildings unaccounted for, either as homes, warehouses or businesses, within Lowtown alone. Add the abandoned houses in the Alienage and the damn near infinite places to hide in the Docks, and there's no way to search them all within any of their lifetimes. Still, Varric is looking for a connection.

With a frustrated sigh, Isabela places the ring she had earlier given to Fenris on the table in the middle of Varric's map. "Right. Hawke's been missing for at least two days, according to Bodahn. The last they saw of him at the manor was in the morning; he spent most of the day with Merrill in the Alienage, but they parted ways when he left to visit Anders."

"Which he never did, and I didn't know to miss," Anders says softly. He has not been taking the news well and seems to be directing most of his energy inwards, fighting to keep his emotions at bay and the spirit within him calm enough to participate in their search for the Champion.

It feels like it's all her fault. Merrill scrubs at her eyes with both hands, and tries to get hold of herself. Nobody is blaming her, she knows that. And wallowing in sorrow won't help them find Hawke.

"What's the ring?" Varric asks distractedly, knocking it out of his way as he checks the notes on a neighborhood of warehouses by the major pier.

"Antivan assassin. I met, and killed her, earlier today. She was trying to kidnap children and suggested she was selling them into slavery; the ring was hers. We haven't asked around about the missing kids yet, but we probably still should." Isabela picks the ring up and twirls it between two fingers slowly, frowning at the markings there. "Just wouldn't be right to leave something like that going unchecked."

Aveline nods. "I can have a patrol check for you."

"That would be best. Thanks." Lips pursed, Isabela stops turning the ring, eyes widening as something occurs to her. "Fenris, give me that cup of yours."

"What?" He passes her his wineglass with a puzzled expression that only darkens into further confusion when she drops the ring into it.

She pulls the ring back out, and rolls it along the corner of Varric's map before he can shout in complaint. The wine-red stain it leaves behind is a single word, and Isabela stares at it, hissing. "Blood magic."

" _What_?" Merrill has turned from the window and comes over to see what she means, frowning at the little reddish spot on the paper until she can make it out. "Thrall? The assassin was a thrall? This is her ring?" She picks it up and looks at it oddly, seeming to go into a trance. Fenris hisses softly, looking away, but does not complain. None of them can think of a good reason not to use their every resource to find Hawke as soon as possible.

For several breathless minutes, they wait hopefully; then Merrill comes out of her trance, her expression defeated and sad. "Nothing. I couldn't follow anywhere she'd been. They-- they covered it all up. I'm sorry."

Strangely, Anders is the one who reaches out to put a hand over her hand, squeezing gently. "We'll still find him. Don't worry."

"Any other bright ideas?" Varric asks, and when none of them answer, he sighs, tapping three separate city blocks. "We start here, here, and here. Teams of two. Don't play hero. If you find Hawke and he's alone, bring him home safe as fast as you can. If there are people guarding him, come back here and wait for everyone to regroup. We meet up at midnight. Got it?"

They nod, not a one of them willing to delay any longer than necessary.

"Blondie, you go with Fenris. Aveline, you're with Merrill. Isabela, you're with me."

 **[Day of Wind, Late evening]**

The door slams open and Hawke is blearily aware of shouts, worried voices. He can't remember why the bloodmage left, but she promised she would return. His stomach twists, but he has nothing to lose except blood. Dripping, dripping-- the voices are closer, worried, saying a word that may or may not be his name-- he blinks stupidly up at Aveline, at Merrill who is working hard to unbind him, and feels a shudder of relief as the magic net parts, and the chains unlock and the ropes are sawed away.

"By the Maker, Hawke, what've they done to you?" Aveline gasps, and hauls him up, one arm around his shoulder, dragging him to the door. Merrill darts around like a frightened animal, keeping an eye out for their mysteriously missing enemies. Fenris stands guard at the door, sword out in case there should be an ambush, darting worried glances over his shoulder at the three of them. There is a sort of anguish in his eyes when he first catches sight of Hawke, but then his expression is stoic as he can possibly manage.

They near the door, and he can see moonlight beyond it and is so grateful he feels tears seeping from his eyes. He can barely speak, but he remembers his earlier concern and fights to get the words out anyway. At first, they're incoherent.

"Hawke?" Aveline turns to him, and seeing his lips moving, she stops, resettling his weight more heavily against her armored body, trying to support him so he will be even a little bit more comfortable. "What is it?"

"Children," he groans, his throat buzzing with how dry it is. He is painfully hoarse, and barely conscious; he's terrified of falling asleep and slipping into the Fade again.

"Children?" Aveline's eyes go wide and she looks around the warehouse sharply, alert for signs of anyone else in need of help that she missed. Tensely, Fenris checks near the door for signs of a scuffle and, finding nothing, resumes his position as guard. The warehouse is curiously empty, however, and Merrill does a second check for them both, finding nothing.

"Maybe he's had visions," she offers helpfully, chirping as if nothing bad has happened. It's so typical of her, he almost laughs. "D'you think the people who did this will be back?"

"We can't take that risk. Hawke, I'm going to bring you to Darktown. Can you make it like this?" Aveline holds him more tightly and some of the wounds made in his chest are pulled by the angle, splitting a bit. He coughs, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain, and struggles to right himself a bit.

Aveline loosens her grip, apologetically murmuring nonsense to try to reassure him. "They-- kidnapped-- children," he insists, as Aveline drags him towards the door and the safety it represents, and Merrill and Fenris dart ahead, checking the alleyway for any gangs that might have come along.

"Look, Hawke, even if they did, we _have_ to get you some help. When you're better, we can come back and look for these children. Until then, shut up and let's go." Aveline drags him another step, and he digs in his heels. "--Hawke?"

He shakes his head, takes a rattling breath, and pleads with her. With all of them, really. "Bloodmage. Might-- kill them before we can get back. Must help them."

Aveline's face hardens into a scowl. "Don't be an idiot, Hawke. Come on."

Dripping pervades his thoughts. He blinks slowly, staring at Aveline, _through_ her. He doesn't budge, and starts laughing weakly, before he gets hold of himself.

"You aren't her," he whispers. The vision scatters into pieces, and he can feel someone shouting angrily, feel a mace slam into his chest. Ribs crack; he coughs wetly, and forces a twisted grin. "You aren't her."

 **[Day of Thunder, Predawn]**

The children are crying; he can hear them, but he can't see through the strip of cloth they tied over his eyes. Just as well. The bloodmage is prying the fingernails off of his left hand with a knife. For entertainment, they removed the gag some hours ago. When they broke his ribs, he lost the volume needed to be a threat-- no one could hear him beyond this room even if they were trying. As the knife finds its way under the nail of his third finger, his eyes roll back. He has been passing out constantly for the last several hours, but they refuse to let him sleep. Hands slap his face, or a bucket of icy water will be poured over him. This time it feels as though a hot coal is being pushed underneath his eye and he screams, feebly, writhing as the coal forces him awake in time to feel the rip of his fingernail as the knife flicks it off of his skin.

He has given up trying to figure out what they want. They do not answer. The bloodmage woman only whispers in his ear how easy it would be to give in, to save himself, but never responds to his questions at all. The mysterious voices with those oddly familiar accents have disappeared entirely.

Distantly, he is aware of a commotion. Fighting, shouting. The building catches on fire at one point, and the bloodmage lets him go, running off to join her comrades.

Within the line of his dim vision is an explosion of fire magic that crisps her instantly. When she dies, he feels a lightness in his mind that has been missing for days and sobs with relief and confusion, even as the other spells hold and continue to bind him in place. The battle rages on for the better part of an hour before the enemies are routed and attention can be paid to his chains.

Flashes of their faces tell him the identity of his rescuers; Anders, frowning worriedly. Varric, Fenris, Isabela. Sebastian, who says a prayer over him and looks down with worried, piercing blue eyes.

"Can you hear me, Hawke?"

He blinks slowly, nods; they need Merrill to free him. There's no way to break the blood magic otherwise.

"We're going to carry you back to the Alienage. Was there anyone else here with you?"

He's not even sure who's speaking. His eyes flicker to the corner where the children have been kept all this time. Fenris is off like a shot, collects the children and leads them out of the warehouse. He shuts his eyes, opens them again, and can still hear his blood, dripping.

"We're going to carry you out of here," promises a voice that is not really one of his friends, and he shakes his head, mouthing his denial. "Hawke, you're not making sense. Let us help you."

Consciousness eludes him for a moment, and then someone is slapping him wildly awake again. It's Fenris, or maybe Sebastian; the voice that speaks to him is a woman's voice.

"If you will not cooperate, then I will simply kill you."

Hands close around his throat, forming a noose that pulls too tight to breathe. The rope burns into his neck as it draws even tighter, spots flicker in his vision. He thinks idly that she will not kill him because she would have done that in the first place if it served her any purpose. Just as he is blacking out, the rope loosens, and she snarls into his ear angrily, impatiently, and he stifles a weak chuckle.

Flemeth swoops down through the roof of the warehouse, tearing it open, and eats him whole. He can feel the pressure of her throat crushing him, the acid of her stomach eating through his skin. He is dying.

He wakes up: the children are crying, begging for mercy for him. The thugs watching him tell them to shut up, over and over again without success. They threaten to kill the children; one of them looks his way and tells him to hurry it up or they'll follow through.

His breath is coming uneven, in sharp gasps that hitch on something rough in his throat. He watches them kill the children, one by one, slitting their throats, with bloodshot eyes. He cries for them, but can do nothing.

He wakes up: the world is an explosion of magic and blood and there are shouts and flame and Anders is there for a moment, a silhouette against the moon before he passes into the shadows again, striking an assassin on the head with his staff. He is fighting almost back to back with Fenris, who glows with his own light, with rage, and looks at Hawke in horror when he realizes that Hawke is no longer unconscious. They can't spare time to speak to him. They are too busy dispatching his enemies.

It is grueling. By the time they finish it's light outside, it's morning. The sun is glimmering through the few windows in the warehouse (he smells smoked meat) and his blood is still dripping, until Anders finally staggers to his side, staunching the flow of the thousand tiny wounds inflicted on him these last few days to drain him of his life as slowly as possible. Fenris is cursing as he tries to calm the children. None of them are dead, but all are traumatized. They babble about the Champion of Kirkwall, who Hawke realizes dimly is _himself_.

"Hawke?" Anders's voice resolves from a din into something like clarity. "Hawke? Look at me. It's Anders. Can you hear me?"

He nods, very slowly. He is so tired of this game.

"Can you see clearly? How many fingers am I holding up?"

Anders holds up three fingers. Hawke dissolves into laughter at the ludicrous details the bloodmage is beginning to put into her fantasies. He doesn't answer; he can't. His chest is nothing but a dense mass of hurt, every breath burns and takes more effort than a full battle with a fellow mage.

It's noon now, they're in the Hanged Man. He is better, but not really better. Varric offers him a beer. Someone wearing Isabela's face that doesn't otherwise look anything like her tells Hawke he should try the special when he drinks the beer. It'll taste better.

He refuses both, and it's as though someone has cast a lightning spell with their hand on his face, directly into his body. He chokes on his own spit, feels his muscles spasming wildly. He has never known pain like this. All he can do to save himself is disbelieve the world.

He wakes up.

 **[Day of Thunder, Dawn]**

After a night of unsuccessful hunting, they had regrouped at the Hanged Man, taken a second set of possible neighborhoods, and set out again, to regroup at dawn if they met with failure again. Rumors had led Varric's attention a bit further towards the docks. Isabela, convinced that the kidnapped children are related to Hawke's disappearance, investigated further and found that her assassin seemed to have been spotted in one of the neighborhoods Varric had outlined for this next run.

Now they are all poised outside of a single warehouse that stores dried and salted foods, at the edge of one of the smallest piers in the city. Isabela and Merrill scouted this one, and came running to find the others and drag them there. By Merrill's count, there are thousands of people between them and their friend; but Isabela is a little calmer, and can explain as they approach in a cautious whisper:

"There are no less than thirty mercs in there. At least three blood mages, the rest are all armed to the teeth, and they've got Hawke strung up on a slaughtering table for their captive audience."

"--the children," Aveline gasps, horror warring with a smoldering rage as she glances towards the building they approach, understanding their enemy at last. "They're making them watch, aren't they?"

Isabela nods, and Merrill adds shakily, only just now recovering her usually brave attitude, "They're trying to bleed him out. When the body is weaker, people are often more willing to make a deal if it means they can survive."

Of them all, Fenris has not said anything. He is gleaming like a beacon, and hangs back so as not to reveal their position. Varric has already disabled the lookouts in a very permanent way, and Anders and Merrill are preparing to shield the rest of them from harm so they can cleave their enemies without danger of falling before they have freed Hawke from his chains.

"Let's go," Varric whispers, leading the way in.

They have the element of surprise, so Varric and Isabela endeavor to open their attack by sneaking in and slitting the throats of several of the mercenaries who are currently, apparently, on the sleeping shift while their fellows keep eye on Hawke, the main door, and the children.

That brings it down to eighteen mercs and three bloodmages, but none of them bats an eyelash. They enter the room swiftly, terribly. Some of the children have already been sacrificed to increase the bloodmages' power as they pry into Hawke's mind and try to turn him; the rest cower in terror at these new men and women, not trusting them to save them. As one, they beg the Champion to 'wake up', to save them, and they fight with the ropes that bind them, weeping and screaming in terror.

In any other situation, it would be a massacre. Fenris and Anders immediately attack the bloodmages, while Aveline and Varric tackle the mercenaries with Merrill's aid. Isabela makes a beeline for the children, slicing the ropes that bind them and telling them all to gather close, that she has something very important to tell them. When they do, she promises that they will be all right: she is a friend to the Champion.

Once she has led the children from the warehouse, Isabela escorts them back to their homes, one by one. She does not return to the Hanged Man until well after the sun has passed its zenith.

The mercenaries do not stand a chance, though they don't seem to know it. By the time only two of them are left, they seem to reconsider their contract and try to run.

Varric doesn't let them, hissing "No one. Kidnaps. My Best. Friend."

Aveline finishes off the second one, saying nothing. She's fully content to let her sword do the talking.

Fenris had never thought he and Anders could agree on anything, but today he is wrong. Magic blossoms around him, protecting him, enhancing him. He cuts off one of the mages' arms, impales the second neatly and as he is removing his sword from the man's stomach, jams his spiked elbow into the stomach of the third. Flicking blood from the blade's surface, he slices off the second man's head.

His attention is really focused on the woman, who clutches the stump where he right shoulder now ends, pulling her own lifeblood and its energy into a spell that sears through the air and slices into him, through him, damaging lungs and spine and knocking him to his knees. The world has grown dim and he coughs, shocked, feeling blood run up his throat as a prelude to a massive, emetic shudder. He chokes on it, body heaving as it tries to reject the magic done to it.

There is Anders, suddenly, touching his shoulder and from his shoulder spreads a warm light that is only made stronger by the marks in his skin. He draws a deep breath, staggers to his feet, and forward, sinking his gauntlet into the woman's chest.

Her face twitches once when he clutches that fast-beating organ that sustains her, and then he pulls.

Anders has already moved on to Hawke, kneeling at his side and spitting nervous curses, anxiety making his voice tremble. Fenris can't find his balance, at first-- still affected, he supposes, by the woman's spell-- and then joins him, thinking he must provide whatever little he can to help heal Hawke.

Aveline helps Merrill limp towards the door. "I can wait until later, don't worry about me," she says when Anders turns to ask why Merrill is going.

"He's bound here," Anders answers sharply, his eyes flickering blue. "You're the only one who can undo this kind of spell."

"Oh- oh." They limp back over to Hawke's side, and she slices her palm without a moment's hesitation, snapping the shield that binds Hawke to the slaughtering table with a single gesture and smiling ruefully at Anders's disapproving face. "Don't worry about me. Please. Help Hawke."

"Of course."

Varric is at Hawke's side, picking the locks of the chains used to support the magical binding, but he keeps his head down as Anders surveys the damage and whispers urgent, terrified curses. Most prevalent in them is _I don't know if he'll be able to wake up. I don't know if he'll want to._

Hawke's eyes open, bleary, unfocused. He is deathly pale under his tanned skin, and his mouth is drawn into a line of pain. Every breath is torture; seeing them is torture; moving his head is torture.

Tears seep past his eyes and he smiles, sobbing, at the sight of them. The words he mouths cannot take voice. Anders has to put him to sleep again to get him to stop. Fenris shoots him an angry look for such excess, but Anders only answers apologetically, "His ribs are broken. We have to fix his hurts before we can do anything more for him."

They look around the warehouse, all loathe to wait here any longer than necessary.

"Can you help me carry him to my clinic? Are you feeling well enough to do it?" Anders asks nervously, earnestly concerned for Fenris, for once. Both Fenris and Varric answer,

"I'm fine. I'll help."

And they do.

 **[Day of Fire; afternoon]**

Hawke wakes up.

At first, he only really sees the ceiling of his bedroom. His face feels a bit warm, and he realizes he is caught in a beam of sunlight. It is a pleasant place to be, and he smells the soap Orana uses to clean the floor, can hear Sandal's eerie sing-song as he works enchantments below. It is hard to breathe; every time he does, his chest throbs sharply, as if hundreds of knives have been planted through it and left there. He is still so cold, so cold, and he isn't sure if the clock ticking he hears is the continued dripping of his blood, or only a clock.

It is too much for him. He drifts back and forth between true consciousness and utter oblivion, carried by the tide of his own breathing, and tries to build up his mental defenses, to prepare for the inevitable. This is just a dream. He is not home. He cannot yield when the demons come, and they will, and they will be cleverly disguised, and it will destroy him but for the sake of the children-- and his mother-- and-- everything he loves, he must not yield.

"Hawke?" says a familiar voice, timid and small, from the general area of the door. Bare feet pad across the floor, soft and skittering, and pale elven fingers touch his face. He stares up at her dispassionately, not daring to believe that this is really Merrill, that she will do anything but dissolve into another nightmare. "You shouldn't be awake yet; d'you need something?"

Clever, clever. His foggy thoughts are growing foggier, and as she touches his face he can feel blood magic sinking through his skull.

Startled, Merrill draws her hand back as if burned, staring at him with wide, childlike eyes. "Hawke, what's the matter? Why are you crying?"

He refuses to answer her. Denying his friends, even if they are only shadows crafted out of his memories, is not something he enjoys being forced to do. Let his silence serve as his refusal.

Merrill bites her lip, blinking away tears of her own. He can see uneasy guilt there, see how she remembers Marethari and blames herself for this, even though it really isn't her fault. He would comfort her, if she were real. "I- I know it's not as good as Anders's magic, but after healing you so much he's f-fallen ill, Hawke. You need your rest, and--"

The young woman that Hawke has always rather thought of as a younger sister, or maybe a sweet hearted niece, stands her ground, biting her lip, forcing herself to look him in the eye.

"And it's the best I can do. If- if it's painful, though, I'll go gather some herbs for you instead. I don't want to hurt you."

Hawke is already nearly back in that black pit of empty unconsciousness that is neither the Fade nor the half-realities that these last days of his life have become. If, when he dies, there is no place for him in the Fade or by the Maker's side, he thinks it would not really be so bad to disappear.

 **[Day of Sun, morning]**

Voices; familiar voices. Smell of incense, or cedar chips. His left hand twitches and the sting at his fingertips and the end of his thumb reminds him that he is missing three fingernails. Wounds he hadn't realized he had make themselves known as he fights to open his eyes, inexplicably exhausted. Clicking-- that's the clock-- no, that's his blood, dripping.

"I just don't think it's wise to keep an armed guard around his bed. Not exactly friendly." Varric. Varric is practical but sounds oddly shaken. He feels like he must have missed something. What could possibly upset Varric?

"We shouldn't take chances," Aveline insists. She is the first thing he sees, a vague shape with that loose ponytail that is her only concession to femininity sliding along her shoulders as she turns to the door, to someone who has just entered the room. "Fenris, help me out here."

Hawke is waking up, and the sensation of waking up is terrifying. He would rather not. He remembers too clearly all the false realities the bloodmage woman has spun for him so far, he dares not imagine more lest she pluck them from his thoughts and use them. As much as his body was struggling to wake, he now struggles uselessly not to let it.

"No." A dark emotion colors Fenris's voice. He pushes past Aveline and Varric, and comes to sit beside Hawke's bed. The two of them trail after him, Aveline puzzled and Varric silently supportive. It's all he can do. "No, Varric is right. Guard the doors of the house, if you must."

They notice his eyes fluttering against his better intentions, and crowd around him. The shift of Fenris's weight on the bed as he grabs Hawke's right hand jars his ribs and he can't help the strangled sound of pain that makes it past his lips. Like a startled animal, Fenris pulls back quickly, staring at him in horror.

"Hawke?" Aveline asks, and her voice is uncharacteristically gentle. Varric doesn't say anything, watching him closely with sad, understanding eyes. "Hawke, can you hear us?"

He blinks at her slowly, then can't help but laugh at how ridiculous it all is. The ticking of the clock sounds more and more like his blood. He feels dizzy. "Of course I can," he croaks, swallowing hard against the knot in his throat, blinking away tears.

Misunderstanding, Fenris and Aveline smile in relief that he is sane, that he knows them. "Maker's Breath, Hawke, we were worried about you."

"Do you need anything?" Fenris asks.

"I know you aren't real," Hawke whispers, and almost, he can feel the nails of the bloodmage's fingers dragging across his face in exasperation. While Aveline and Fenris look taken aback-- confused-- Varric only nods sadly and claps a hand to Hawke's shoulder, awkwardly, where he lies in bed. "I'm so tired."

Of them all, only Varric is able to find his voice, and it breaks to spite him when he tries to keep it steady. "I know, Hawke."

"You're still-- my favorite dwarf," he promises weakly, chuckling to himself. "Where ever you actually are."

That roaring sound in his ears is accompanied by a curious blankness in his vision. It tunnels, grays, and he gasps for air, eyes sliding shut. Distantly, he can hear Varric answering: "I've got your back, Hawke."

 **[Day of Wind; Evening]**

"Oh, my poor boy," Leandra is whispering, stroking his hair from his face, holding his hand. He knows this is a dream, and violently rejects it, even though it means holding close the memories of his mother's death, of how it felt to hold the corpse that bore her face, of her empty room: he wakes up singularly conscious of the tiny pinpricks in his arms, and the cuts, the even cuts, like someone marking off days in a prison cell, from fingertips all the way up to his shoulders.

He stares up into the bloodmage's eyes, and for a moment he falters. It would be so easy to give in.

Her fingers curl in his hair, pulling, and she bends down to kiss him, sucking the life right out of his lungs. He is powerless to stop her. He screams, but when he opens his mouth water floods down his throat, cold ocean trapping him, freezing him through. Suspended here at the bottom of the ocean, he can see Kirkwall fading far above him as he sinks deeper than light can touch.

Something soft closes around him and there is a single, piercing blue light at his chest. His thoughts supply Fenris's hand, phased through him, and he can feel pressure and dreams that they are having mercy at last, that the bloodmage has finally given up and is going to kill him. He chokes on his own blood, and--

No, this light is something else.

"...Justice." The word is a memory, because he can't speak here in this dark and dying place. Under Justice is the faint outline of a man who, secretly and passionately, loves him. He knows those eyes, dark eyes, hungry, lonely. He cannot love that man in return, not the way he wants. The outline fades, and only Justice remains.

 _Hold still,_ the spirit tells him, a slow rumble of thunder on the distant horizon. He blinks, coughs up salt-water, and rolls over in the sand, pushing himself up. The sky is dark with late-summer clouds and the air smells thick with rain. _You must permit us to heal you._

Hawke doesn't answer; he forces himself to his feet, staggering blindly for the shore and takes off at a dead run. His chest is burning, lungs demanding more air as he passes through fronds of foliage and breaks through the interlocked branches of scrub-trees. The memory of Tal'Vashoth looms to his left so he takes the right trail, away from Kirkwall, away from his lonely estate.

 _Why do you run?_

Panting, he stoops to crawl into a shallow cave, staring out at the gathering storm and the way the sea licks and leaps to its call. He huddles there, shaking with cold and covered with sweat. A faint sensation of soft fabric bracing him tickles at his mind, confusing him a moment.

"I will not yield," he whispers into his knees, resting his head on them. Hot tears sear into his cool skin. "I will not yield to you. I will not turn."

Blue energy, blue light, that finds him and spreads through his chest, his lungs, along his arms down to his fingertips. It fights his attempts to reject it, it raises him up, it invades and restores him, insisting that he must get _well_. When it recedes, he is staring up at Anders, gasping in shock. He is awake.

He is almost sure that he is _awake._

"Anders?" His voice is raspy, but stronger than it has been. Someone is gripping his right hand desperately tight; Varric. Anders is leaning against Fenris, who in turn is slumped against the wall beside the headboard of the bed, semi-conscious.

"Good to have you back." Anders shudders violently and stumbles away from the bed. Out of the corner of his eye Hawke can see him picking up a chamber pot, unabashedly ill. Fenris just leans against the wall, eyes half-lid, breathing heavily. He is covered with sweat, and unaware of anything.

From the foot of the bed, Isabela appears, carrying Fenris to a pile of cushions that Hawke dimly realizes they have been using as bedding. She forces Fenris to lie down there and he almost immediately slips into sleep. When Anders has finished voiding the contents of his stomach, she drags him out of the room to wash up. Varric squeezes his hand, and Hawke turns slowly to look at him, scarcely daring to believe it.

"How do you feel?"

For a long time, he doesn't know how to answer; he tries, but no words come. Isabela bustles back in, Anders in tow, and makes him lie down as well. He can hear her telling the mage to sleep, no buts, and senses her putting her hands on her hips and looking stern until he obeys. By the time he is able to answer, she has come to Varric's side and looks hopefully down at him, her brow furrowed with concern.

"Terrified," he manages at last, with a weak chuckle. "Maker, I want this to be real."

Isabela starts to say, "It _is_ \--" but Varric lifts a hand to stop her, shaking his head.

"Don't push him."

It's such a relief not to be pushed. Without even realizing that he is doing so, Hawke squeezes Varric's hand in return, grateful for that point of contact, even if it is only a figment of his imagination trying to bring him a modicum of comfort. The leather of Varric's glove is soft and old, and he is warm.

Hawke realizes, with some surprise, that he no longer feels cold. He isn't certain why.

"--children?" he asks, remembering suddenly that there was something important he had to do. "What about the children?"

Isabela's face darkens, but she nods in understanding. "Yes, we found them, too. The mages had killed some of them, but I saw the rest home safely. I've been checking up on them." She crosses her arms over her chest, forces a smile. "They're all worried about you, you know. Whenever I drop by they ask if you're feeling better. They have _faith_ in you."

Maybe it's just his mind telling him what he wants to hear. But he wants to hear it very desperately. "Thank you," he says, closing his eyes as the exhaustion starts to sweep up again. "Thank you for saving them."

Beyond his tiny shelter, the storm explodes with lightning and thunder. Rain pours down, blows coldly into his bare legs, and he huddles more tightly against them, using them as a shield. But he is smiling.

 **[Day of Thunder]**

Fenris will not leave Hawke's room. When he is well enough to let Anders pull the energy from his body, he assists the only way he can, though it's clear the experience is not pleasant. Merrill has been taking care of him, and he does not refuse her.

Varric comes by every morning and evening; Aveline checks in every other day. Isabela brings lunch up daily.

Hawke is rarely conscious; Anders has explained, when he isn't suffering from exhaustion and the tremors of a body pushed past its limits, that it will take time and there's nothing else they can do. Oh, certainly, they could try to go into the Fade and encourage him to return-- but this is exactly why he refuses to wake already. They would be doing him no favors.

So the days pass, and they wait and watch, and Hawke's fingernails begin to grow back, his ribs begin to heal through. His breathing becomes steadier, his color is slowly restored. They feed him, but it is difficult not to feel like they are torturing him when they do; only Aveline and Isabela have the stomach for it.

They all know, or at least try to accept, that it is up to Hawke, if-- or hopefully, WHEN-- Hawke will recover.

Today, he opens his eyes and slowly sits up, hissing at the pull of ignored muscles, the strain of recently-healed wounds. His eyes are hazy with pain, but they are open. He crawls out of bed, stands up, and lingers there, leaning on the bedpost, left hand gripping it tightly for balance. He becomes distracted by his missing fingernails, by the light lines along his fingers and arms.

And Fenris, who woke as soon as Hawke's sheets rustled, does not move: he watches, patiently, and does not offer to help.

Eventually, Hawke notices him lying there-- and Anders, too, though Anders is snoring and blissfully unaware of Hawke's scrutiny.

He swallows, squinting, and steps away from the bed towards the door. "Going to try to stop me?"

Fenris shakes his head. "No."

That same damaged, weary smile spreads across Hawke's face again, and in his distraction he stumbles and falls to his knees, groaning at the pain of the sudden impact. He hisses until it fades enough to ignore, pushes himself back up through sheer force of will. He can't falter. He needs to walk around, needs to know the world. He has to crawl to the door, pulling himself up along it with what little strength he can muster in this feeble state. Sweat is running into his eyes and he blinks it away stubbornly, gritting his teeth.

He makes it back to his feet, glances back at Fenris, and is surprised to see Fenris still sitting there--

Watching him, watching him with an expression like agony. But Fenris doesn't say a thing, and nods once to him, silently dedicated to his choice not to interfere.

Hawke wavers, confused. "--a-aren't you supposed to tempt me?" He looks at the doorway and the stairs beyond it in horror, but can't back away from them. If he lets go, he will fall again, and his knees are still throbbing. One of them seems to have been twisted when he landed on it and hurts worse than the other. "Believing that I can escape-- is that it?"

No answer comes, and when he looks back at Fenris he can see the other man trembling with the desire to go help him.

"What's the trick?" Hawke whispers, shuddering. He doesn't dare let his guard down.

"I don't know." The answer is earnest. Regretful.

Clinging to the doorway, Hawke feels his shoulders shaking before the first sob catches in his throat. He can't stop it, once it's started. He sinks back down to his knees, presses his face into the stone of the doorframe, and weeps until he hasn't the energy to do it anymore.

When he looks back, he is shocked to see that Fenris is crying too; still staying where he is, still desperate to go to him.

Fenris, who refuses to tempt him, or push him, or risk his sanity any further. Fenris, who Hawke begins to believe must be real.

"--help me," is the hardest request Hawke has ever made.

But Fenris is across the room as fast as he can move, bracing Hawke's weight and holding him steady. His shoulders shake as he fights down his own emotions, whispering hoarsely, violently, "Tell me where you wish to go, and I will take you there, Hawke."

He can't remember his destination, if he had one at all. "Take me to the Hanged Man," he decides, after thinking a moment, "if that's not too far."

"I would march into Tevinter for you." Fenris carries them towards the stairs.

 **[Day of Moon; late evening]**

The bustle of commerce through the Hanged Man is at its peak. Regulars are in, sailors just to port have been flooding Lowtown with their eager spending and lusty drinking, and Varric Tethras sits at the head of his stone table, finishing the latest touches on a particularly florid tale about The Lady Of The Ginger Hair on a dare from Isabela.

There is a knock at his door, and he glances up, expecting a serving girl. What he finds is much better, but also requires a serving girl.

"Hawke!" He laughs, and rings the bell he purchased to heckle Norah. She has complained about it loudly, and he answered that she can always send Gorff if she doesn't like it. "I was wondering when you'd be by."

"You know me, keeping my head down whenever prudent," Hawke laughs, slipping inside and taking one of the stone chairs with a hearty sigh. "Have you ever dealt with the Crows, perchance?"

Fenris has followed Hawke in, as does Isabela. The latter is conspicuously smug, the former silent as a shadow and never more than a few feet from Hawke. Few inches, once they join him at the table. Varric allows himself a secretive smile and makes a mental note to ask about the titillating details sometime soon. "You mean those annoying black birds? I hear if you make a man out of straw, they scatter. Not too bright, birds."

" _Varric._ "

"I know, I know." He shrugs, and arranges his papers into a pile, slowly straightening to sit neatly on the table. It takes some doing. "Can't imagine why you'd ask _me_ , though."

Hawke sends Isabela an annoyed look which she pointedly ignores, and then he rolls his eyes. "Because _Isabela_ is being entirely unhelpful and that means I need to pester you for information."

"Really, now?" He gives Isabela a speculative look, smirking slightly. "What secrets could you possibly be keeping this time?"

"Entirely relates to a good lay. Which," she adds sharply, "I intend to pursue once we get going so can we hurry it up, please. This is an exceptionally important mission. Chop chop."

"Easy, easy. I can see it's important. Can't wait till morning?"

Hawke sighs. "Not really, no. Are you in?"

"Of course, of course." Papers arranged, Varric rises from his seat and they follow suit, weaving their way through the bawdy crowd and managing, after some minutes of careful planning to get to the exit. Hawke takes the lead, Fenris close behind him, and Varric and Isabela trail after, chatting idly about Antiva, crows, and the weather.

As they're heading for the beach, they bump into a young woman who recognizes Hawke after a moment of apologizing, and brightens, leaping up to embrace him without so much as a first date.

"Oh, thank you!"

"B-beg pardon?" Hawke asks; to hear him, one would think he was embarrassed. In the soft moonlight Varric can see that the Champion has gone pale and extricates himself from the strange woman's grasp as quickly as possible. "Ah. You're welcome?"

"You saved my son." Realizing that the man before her has never met her, the woman becomes embarrassed at last and ducks her head, toeing the dirt and blushing. "L-last month, down at the docks, it was. Them horrible Antivans kidnapped my poor boy. Oh, he thinks the world of you, sir. I can't thank you enough for what you done."

With a hand subtly on his chest, the other white-knuckled on his staff, Hawke nods to her, finding a friendly smile and telling her, "You don't need to thank me. I'm glad to have helped."

Then she is gone, and they all draw a little closer, Fenris wondering worriedly if Hawke is all right, Isabela offering to go find Anders if his ribs are hurting again. He shakes his head, waves them off. Varric speaks up when it's clear they don't intend to drop the mother-hen business. "Are we going, or what? Those birds aren't gonna find themselves."

Hawke looks at him gratefully, and turns back toward their destination. "I suppose if Isabela's no longer interested in this apparently fabulous assassin, she doesn't have to come along--"

"What! I didn't say that!" She stalks after him with her hands balled into fists. "You can't have dibs, either, I called dibs."

"Oh?" Hawke laughs. "Are you saying I should want them? Tell me more about this mysterious person."

Behind them, Fenris and Varric follow. It's too dark to make out the elf's expression, but his voice is heavy with regret. "Thank you for that."

"What? I didn't do anything."

Fenris shakes his head, but doesn't say anymore, quickening his pace to keep close to Hawke, just in case he is needed. Their steps take them to the foot of Sundermount; to a dark cave with nests of spiders; to a strange Antivan elf. Before they are done, the night has passed and they've gone out to the beach camp of the Crows who first asked Hawke's assistance in the whole matter.

They slaughter them, and after risking Fenris's ire, the Antivan elf and Isabela run off to a nearby cove, proceeding to loudly and publicly make love.

"Whoa!" Varric laughs, lifting a hand to spare himself. "What makes you think any of us wanted front row seats?"

"Take a WALK then, Varric!" Isabela shouts good-naturedly back. Hawke is already walking away, Fenris beside him. They find their way to the edge of the beach, and Hawke keeps walking, stepping out into the waves, staring over the sea as the night truly ends, and the sun begins to rise. He looks incredibly fragile, standing there. Fenris itches to follow, but stays well back, giving him space that Varric is inclined to agree the mage needs.

As the distant horizon gleams with the spreading light of day, Hawke lets himself sink down, sitting at the edge of the waves, unmindful of the wet sand, and watches with a curious smile on his face. By the time Isabela rejoins them (not a hair out of place), he has stood up and is dusting himself off.

"What's this? Meditation?"

Varric sees the odd sense of peace in Hawke's expression as Fenris at last goes down to him, murmuring to him, probably making sure he is all right. There is a serenity in Hawke's face as he answers that makes Varric believe that everything really will be all right. "Yeah." He grins at her. "Something like that."


End file.
